


Buried Knowledge Found

by thewritehag



Series: Early Findings [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, fem!Bilbo, gender swap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritehag/pseuds/thewritehag
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield arrives early and sets the story into a different direction, if a slight and so much more significant one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly a reboot, but more like rewriting "Early Findings (proto-work)" and making it better (to my estimations) and, thus, a different story.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain was well outside any mountain as he looked at his map of the Shire. He wondered if he was already lost among the halflings as he neared the Green Dragon. However, inside, he made inquiries and was not lost. Not yet, but he was willing to admit his own faults to himself, at least. With more questions asked and answered as he drew himself into the Shire and toward Hobbiton, he was careful of the path he took to the round green door of one Bilbo Baggins and was mindful, too, of words such as “witch” and “storyteller” when the name came up, especially as he got closer to his destination. 

On the twenty-third of Aston, Thorin was perplexed. From his place on the path, he could see a round door and that it was green, demarcating it from the other round doors the halflings so enjoyed. There wasn’t a rune, however. Tharkun promised he would be ahead of the company to make sure of their way, yet there was no glowing mark. Yet, he was sure he was in the right place. About to go to the door, he saw a hobbit come from around or over the dug in home, a hoe over one shoulder and a little badger strapped to the other. 

“Hullo,” he said when he caught sight of Thorin, friendly and with a renewed grip on the gardening implement. “Can I be helping you, sir?"

Thorin wore a carefully crafted mask all his days, only seldom did he allow his stoic visage to slip or even crack. So, the hobbit man did not see the play of confusion, annoyance, and relief that bubbled within Thorin’s mind. 

“I am well,” Thorin tipped his head slightly, “thank you.”

“Name’s Hamfast,” the hobbit said and stopped a few feet short of Thorin, not yet past the gate. “You’d be?”

“Thorin,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield.”

Hamfast’s eyes widened slightly and there was a sudden burble from the child, who poked his head a little further up from behind his father’s shoulder.

“Oakenshield, by me,” Hamfast said. He let the hoe rest against a post and twisted the wrap so the child was against his chest. “I do believe I’ve heard your name before and my bairn has, certainly.” 

“You have and he—?” Thorin couldn’t help but offer his hand to the child, close enough to grasp at Thorin’s finger. “How?”

“The storyteller, donchaknow,” Hamfast chuckled and the baby laughed along. 

“I believe I also heard the term ‘Witch,’” Thorin pressed and smiled at the child’s renewed grip.

“So rude,” Hamfast said. “Begging yer pardon, sir, his name is Halfred. Oh,” he blinked, “not Witch. That’s not so much rude as a kind of endearment, y’might say. Our Bilbo has a way with words.”

“Indeed? I am looking for Master Baggins,” Thorin said and was given back his digit when Halfred dozed again. “Perhaps you could direct me to where he lives.”

Hamfast tsked and took up his hoe. He passed the gate and stepped onto the path, ready to go elsewhere.

“I’m afraid Mr. Baggins has past. It’s been some years o’course,” Hamfast said, possibly seeing Thorin’s expression as one being stricken, “his Missus passed sometime after ‘im. You might be looking for their daughter, she’s called Bilbo and sometimes called a Master. More oft’n a witch,” he nodded and winked. “As an endearment, strictly.”

“I…see. Can you tell me where Mistress Baggins lives, then?”

Hamfast readjusted the wrap again, letting the hoe settle against the tall briar hedge as he did, settling Halfred against his back again. He took up the gardening hoe, crossing it over his chest.

“Supposin’, sir, you tell me what you’d be lookin’ for?”

“A mutual friend,” Thorin said slowly, “directed me that she and I should meet.”

“That so?”

“I wish her no harm, Master Hamfast, simply to make inquiries about a subject she may have insight on.”

“Ah,” Hamfast’s expression cleared and the hoe was transferred to one hand as a walking stick. “Given yer name and you bein’ a dwarf n’all.”

Thorin kept his expression blank, though could not stop his brow from furrowing slightly. 

“I s’pose you’ll be on a quest of a sort or were on one. Miss Bilbo’s stories are always popular, even the old ones, but new ones never go amiss, I should think. Yer in the right spot, Master Oakenshield,” Hamfast jutted his thumb towards the green door. “Don’t be mindin’ me if I come back later to make sure Miss Bilbo’s fine. Just take yerself up the walk and you’ll be well away.”

“Up the walk?” Thorin asked slowly and looked at the wide steps that lead to the door. 

“Yessir, as I said it. Mind, only because my Halfred’s a good judge of character now.”

“Of course,” Thorin nodded again and grinned slightly. 

With that Hamfast gave his own nod and left down the path Thorin came, presumably to his own home. Thorin went up the walk, a curious way of speaking, and rapped sharply twice. 

Nothing.

He knocked again, somewhat harder. 

There was a thud and a curse. Thorin stepped back slightly and held himself as if he were about to walk into court. When the door opened, his eyes fell upon a head of tawny curls, shot through with strands of onyx and copper, set with bright eyes that sparked as with gold in a stream. 

“Hello,” she said, “can I help you?” 

The woman, Bilbo, held the door open wide and looked Thorin up and down, as if to place him and quite unable to. 

“Yes,” Thorin said. “I am Thorin Oakenshield,” he searched the woman’s face for some sign of recognition and was gratified, if still further bemused when she blinked twice at his name, “son of Thrain, son of Thror. Friend of Gandalf.”

He stopped there and looked her up and down as she had him. She was a head shorter than he, freckles adorned her skin wherever it was not covered by cloth, and she was dressed simply in greens and browns. 

“Gandalf?” She asked, her expression screwed back up into one of confusion, then relaxed as she seemed to remember. “You mean the wizard? Why, I haven’t seen him since I was a faunt. Do you and I know each other, though?”

“You seem to know me, or so your neighbors say,” he said and she colored at that. “They call you a storyteller and a witch.”  
She huffed, cheeks still flushed, but with a slight smile.

“To some people, those are the same things and to others, they’re different. If you’ve been to my neighbors, looking for me, then you already know, but,” she bobbed a slight curtsy, “I am Bilbo Baggins.”

“Thank you, Mistress Baggins. May I come in?”

“May I ask why you were looking for me?” She asked, her hand back on the edge of the door, quite ready to slam it, despite his name and her acknowledged stories. 

“You were referenced to me by Gandalf. I had hoped he had spoken to you of this already, unless you are quite absent-minded.”

He stepped inside as Bilbo let him pass, his first sentence a curious answer to her question, though his addendum caused her to turn sharply in his direction, ignoring his cloak as he made to hand it to her. Bilbo slammed the door and waved her hand at the hooks behind him. 

“Well, I do recall his fireworks. They were rather wonderful,” she walked around him and spoke briskly over her shoulder. “What exactly do you have to do with him?”

“He is the instigator of,” Thorin fumbled, “a journey. He bid I come and meet you.”

“What. For?” She spoke as if through gritted teeth, frustration evident in her stiffening shoulders.

“Perhaps we could sit and I will explain.” This conversation was taking a great deal of his diplomacy skills and none of the ones he used as King. If she was this burglar Tharkun touted her as being, delicacy was likely to be required. Delicacy and politeness. 

“Very well,” she said and continued taking him further inside her home.

“What do you call this structure?” Thorin asked as he looked up at a huge glass window fixture directly above him. 

“This is my atrium,” she said and kept walking, “but the whole of my home is called a Smial. Every hobbit in Hobbiton lives in a Smial.”

“Ah.”

“This,” she said, then stopped and allowed him to pass her into a room, “is my study. I conduct most of my business here. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” he said and stepped over a short pile of books toward one of two cushioned chairs near the fireplace, facing the door.

Bilbo sat herself in the other one and sent him a sharp glare, which smoothed out into a hostess’ nonchalance. Thorin readied himself to speak when she interrupted.

“Don’t begin with some sort of speech about why I haven’t offered you anything, as I don’t know why you’re here and why you seem to think, somehow, I should have been expecting you or somesuch.”

Thorin tipped his head in acknowledgement and did not allow himself to be baited.

“I was surprised simply because there was no mark on your door, even though you do know Gandalf the Gray.”

“I just barely remember him. He had more to do with my parents and why would there be a mark? There better not be a mark on that door, I just had it painted.”

Bilbo spoke as if ready to stand and make sure the door was not vandalized, but pushed herself further back in her chair. 

“Gandalf said it would be there.” Thorin shrugged. 

“Hmph. Why are you looking for me?” Her voice edged toward something akin to fear, but not quite. 

“Gandalf said,” he was beginning to hate those two words in conjunction, “that I would find my burglar here. I would like to hire you.”

There was a beat. Two. Bilbo stared at him. Thorin stared back. She inhaled and stood suddenly.

“I think I would like some tea. Won’t you join me?” She asked even as she was walking quickly out of the room. 

Thorin stumbled in his haste to follow and ended up relying on remembering the last hallway she disappeared down and the sound of a kettle being settled a little too hard on its hook above the kitchen fire. He walked in and saw it not yet done swinging, and Bilbo studiously preparing a tray.

“Did you really not know?”

“How could I?” She cried and spun around from her task. “Not only did I not remember who Gandalf is, the only time I’ve ever heard your name or any of the names related to you, is when I tell the story to the faunts around the party tree!”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked lowly, bringing himself to his full height. “What ‘story’?”

Bilbo didn’t move, not for a breath, then brought the half laden tea tray around to sit at the preparing table in the center of the room. 

“The story of the Lonely Mountain,” she said simply, eyes on the cups and saucers as she handled them gently. The kettle began to whistle and she prepared the pot and leaves to brew. 

“Let’s return to the study,” she said and took up the tray, now filled. “I have a jar of biscuits there, I’m sorry I didn’t offer them, and” she paused when his hand went to her shoulder to stop her from passing him, “I will show you what I mean.”

Back in the study, she settled Thorin in the chair she had occupied before, the tray before him, and lifted down the biscuit jar from the mantle. 

“Shall I pour now or how strong do you like your tea?”

Thorin didn’t answer, which Bilbo accepted with bland grace, and filled both their cups. 

“There’s sugar and cream,” she said and turned toward one of her numerous bookshelves, one piled high also with scrolls of paper and other items he couldn’t see, nor cared about. “Help yourself and calm yourself, do.”

“I am calm. Merely…perplexed,” he said as she muttered to herself, scanning her books until she pulled one down to bring back. “You seem to be aware of who I am and yet have the audacity to be shocked that I know who you are.”

“To be fair, Master Oakenshield,” she said and sat down, the book not yet open on her lap, “you know my name, but you don’t know me. I, however, would be remiss as a scholar and storyteller to not know the fall of the Lonely Mountain and the siege of Smaug, and of the lost rulers.”

“You imply much.”

“I do. And, you insult me by not taking the tea I’ve offered. I was under the impression that royalty, even displaced ones have better manners. Especially when they’re evidently very real and if they want my help.”

“I want nothing from you.” Thorin’s eyes a shimmer beneath his brow.

“How we change our tune,” Bilbo said and held her hand flat on the book cover. “Finish your tea and be off with you. If I see the wizard, I will tell him you beat him here and how you denied use of my services,” here she rolled her eyes. “I’ll be sure to let him know which direction you went.” 

They looked at one another, Bilbo’s chin lifted, until he growled beneath his breath.

“Tell me how you know of me,” he said, “of my people.”

Bilbo tapped the book cover with her fingernail and Thorin lifted his tea cup in one hand and took a drink. Bilbo inhaled.

“The Lonely Mountain was the finest of the Dwarven kingdoms. The most powerful, the richest. Under the leadership of King Thror, it only grew stronger. Mightier. Darker,” Bilbo looked at Thorin, eyes glinting in the meager light from the small windows. 

As Bilbo spoke, her voice became as smoke and velvet. Words were drawn out or cut off abruptly as she wove the tale of the Lonely Mountain. A story, true and horrible, yet she plucked it from the air that blew in from the East for the ears of those so far West and so young in this world. 

If not for his mounting anger and embarrassment—his annoyance that she would know so much and so little an undercurrent to his ire—he would be quite under her thrall, though his tea cup was empty as she finished.

“Only the strongest claws and fire could peel open the mountains outer walls and eviscerate it so thoroughly. The great wyrm, Smaug, red and terrible, took the Lonely Mountain for his own and lays therein, nothing and no one capable enough to withstand him. No arrow strong enough, no sword true enough could battle the awful dragon. The dwarves of the East wondered and found no solace.”

Bilbo finished and folded her hands over the book cover, still unopened. 

“Interesting,” Thorin said through gritted teeth. He gripped the arm rests and forced himself into nonchalance. “I found it lacking, however.”

Bilbo flushed, but shrugged. 

“The faunts like it and I find them a better audience.”

“I’m sure you do. Where did you find all this out, pray?”

“Books,” Bilbo said and tapped the cover again. “Books and maps and some word of mouth when travelers come around and hear me spin the tale ‘round the Party Tree. Here.”

Bilbo handed Thorin the book she had been holding. 

“These are accounts by men of the Lonely Mountain and other stories. I’m sure they’re not completely correct, indeed, much of what I tell the younglings are things I have to make up. I’m afraid some of my book’s writers lack in imagination, but make up for it in information. Most of the time,” she allowed, then settled back in her chair and eyed him warily as he angry flipped through pages. 

“I thought it was just a story,” she said after a moment. “I thought you were a story.”

“Clearly not.”

“Clearly not,” she repeated. “How close did I get to the truth, then, oh, Prince Thorin? It is prince, yes?”

Thorin Oakenshield was legend and had not existed in her world and her eyes travelled over his features, greedy for his confirmation as a living being. She did not ask of the Oaken shield. Perhaps she already knew and enjoyed withholding. What sort of burglar is that? 

“King, until otherwise shown,” he said, not looking up at her, not reading the page under his nose. “As I said. Your story lacks.”

“True, though,” she persisted, “at its core? I’d hate to be a liar to the little ones, they do—”

“Of course!” Thorin couldn’t help but snap, fire in his chest billowing. “Of course, it’s true, how can you ask that when you see the proof—” he gestured to himself “—sitting before you?”

Her eyes had blown wide at his sudden emotion, her hand gone to her throat. After a beat, she exhaled and visibly made herself calm.

“Please,” she rolled her eyes and spoke quickly. “Everyone knows, especially dwarves, how secretive you are. Who knows what’s true or not and I suspect that’s the point.” 

“You said there are maps and other books, hmm?” Thorin got up and strode about the room. Bilbo twisted in her chair to watch him, then shook her head and got up to actually follow him. 

“Yes. Here,” she indicated a large swathe of area filled with scrolls and texts, “are accounts of the event, a few directly from those who actually saw it unfold and more from oral history written down. Even rarer are those written by elves AND—” she plowed on at his loud scoff, “even rarer are any accounts by dwarves. What I do have, gathered by older friends from those surely long gone, are somewhat dubious, including the hastily scrawled map here.”

She drew out a small piece of parchment and took it to carefully unroll it on her somewhat laden desk, and held it down at the edges. He peered over her shoulder, fingers hovering over the sheet, tracing the sharp angles and smooth lines detailed thereon. 

“Dubious,” he said. “You think dwarves are prone to lying.”

“I wouldn’t know, having only met one.” She gave him a hard look. “I think the tellers were protective. Understandably so. Perhaps you could tell me where the writers went wrong?”  
“I cannot. These writers,” he sneered, “were entrusted with tales of my people.”

“Secrets.”

“Sacred,” he corrected. “Sacred tales of our histories and reasons, yet reduced it all down to platitude.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Yes, I did notice that and my apologies.”

Thorin tapped the map before turning back to sit down, not before plucking the biscuit jar from its perch on the hearth.

“This is a poor copy, at any rate.”

Bilbo bristled, but exhaled smoothly, rolling it up carefully.

“I’m sure you have a better one. Which,” she added quickly when his head whipped around, hair beating against his face that he did not seem to notice, “I will not ask to see. Trust goes both ways, Master Oakenshield.”

He hummed and she rejoined him, taking a cookie for herself to dip into her tea, which was likely more sugar and milk than tea, by Thorin’s judgement.

“However,” she said, still dunking, “if you are to stay and wait for your company, then I do believe some recompense is in order. I do not mean money,” she said quickly, “I mean a different trade.”

“My company will be arriving tomorrow,” he said. “What does a story-teller wish for in exchange for at least directions to the nearest inn, if not a guest room in her own smial?”

Bilbo pursed her lips, thinking, and something akin to mischief adorned her face.

“As you called me, so is my payment. I want a story. One I can tell to the fauntlings and their parents. One,” she said, as he was about to interrupt, “that will whisper through the woods surrounding the Shire and the hills further on.”

“You sound more like a witch when you speak that way,” Thorin said.

Bilbo quirked her lips.

“You’ll do well to pick and choose which stories—or whose—you believe, Master Oakenshield.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and lavish praise are both welcome. Also are suggestions for edits and letting me know of incongruities. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr, for [writing](http://wordsrbricks.tumblr.com/) and [angry, nerdy, feminism](http://teapotdragon.tumblr.com/)


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